Jonathan Haidt’s 2024 book entitled “The Anxious Generation” argues that today’s kids are marked by significant increases in anxiety, as the title suggests. Smartphones, social media, economic uncertainty, the chaos of a global pandemic, fear regarding climate change, and the so-called “meaning crisis” all contribute to strikingly high levels of anxiety in young people today. I’m a bit older than this generation, but I feel it, too. The world can be too much to handle.

I’ve always found it amazing that Jesus never says to his disciples the straightforward and bumper stickery words “I love you” or “I will always love you” (a la Dolly Parton’s song). Why doesn’t Jesus say, “I love you”?

Well, actually he does, but in particular ways. He says, “As the Father loves me, so I love you” (John 15:9) thereby rooting his love for us in the space of the Holy Trinity. This week he commands, “Love another as I have loved you” (John 13:34). He presents his love for us as a completed action which continues into the present moment. How has he loved us? By becoming one of us, one with us, and finally giving his life for us in his suffering on the cross. We weren’t there when he did that, but neither were his Apostles (except one). Still, that action is his great “I love you” to us.

A few years back, I felt as if I couldn’t hear God’s voice the way I used to. The words in the Bible seemed like cold ink on a page. Prayer felt like sitting anxiously in a lonely room. I was worried — how could I, a priest, preach or help others if I couldn’t hear God’s voice? It went on for months.

I eat breakfast. If I don’t have something substantial, I’m fading by midmorning. Breakfast is my key meal because it sets up my physical wellbeing for the rest of the day.

Spiritually speaking, we need sustenance to get us going. This is true for the Apostles in this Sunday’s remarkable Gospel reading. The risen Jesus makes his third appearance to them in the early morning light and calls, “Come, have breakfast” (John 21:12). The exhausted and cold fishermen sit, and he feeds them bread and fish as the dawn breaks.

It’s common for Catholics to hear the question, “Why do I have to go to a priest to have my sins forgiven?” I’ve never liked that question because not only is it clunky (confession is the ordinary way for the pardoning of serious sins, not lesser ones). But it misses the larger context: the wonderful origins of the sacrament itself. And this context is deeply Jewish.

When I was a young boy, my parents told me about their wedding. Then a few years later, they showed me my mother’s wedding dress and my dad’s suit. It was astonishing to see and touch garments that connected me to the event that led to my existence. Of course, I already believed they were married based on their word. But these holy garments made the event real and tangible for me.

Consider how useless it is to spread your clothes on the ground for a donkey to walk on. The clothes get smeared with hooves, and who knows the grimy places where they’ve been? The animal may leave some unsavory presents on them. They may get stolen by a thief looking to make a buck. The thorns, thistles, rocks and muck of the road will leave stains. The clothes may never be useful again, and you’ll probably walk home shivering without your normal covering. Yet this is precisely the gesture the people employ to welcome Jesus and his donkey. Why does this detail matter?

“The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery and made her stand in the middle” (John 8:3). Why do they make her stand in the middle? Why not expose her on the periphery? The reason is something that affects us practically every day.

The center is what stabilizes a community’s identity. We humans tend to center ourselves around an accused and condemned victim — though we rarely admit it. This renews our fragile communities and our power as those who weaponize the accusation. This is effective because it is often a victim who represents something truly dangerous for the group.

A man looking a bit downtrodden approached me as I filled my car’s gas tank. He asked, “May I share with you my testimony about how good God is?” “OK,” I skeptically answered. He went on to tell me that he had been an alcoholic and drug addict, and that God had healed him; now he was four years sober. He said, “I didn’t deserve it, but now I’m a different person. God is so good! Have a terrific Tuesday!” A few minutes later, as I drove away, I saw him smiling and handing a homeless person some money. I was confronted with a choice: either he was a total fraud or God had changed him. Something had happened to him, and it didn’t seem fake. Maybe it was God.

My childhood best friend was Xander Price. He was the fastest runner in school, an excellent baseball player and Jewish. Though his family wasn’t intensely religious, I felt totally at home with them despite our religious differences. Everything about their Judaism seemed to undergird and strengthen my own experience of being a Catholic. I knew they didn’t believe in Jesus like my family did, but I intuited somehow that Jesus was “hiding” in their religion. Like a cat moving under a blanket, ready to emerge at any moment, the Lord was hidden there in a special way.

St. Thomas Aquinas said that friends share three things: time, possessions and secrets. For example, how do I know if you're my friend? Well, let's say we've been to Mexico together, you've tried my shaky attempts at pasta carbonara, and you know what ridiculous costume I wore in a music video I filmed in my early twenties. We, dear reader, are definitely friends. We've shared time, possessions and secrets.

One of the most fascinating moments in American history is when George Washington could have become the king of the newly liberated United States and didn’t. At the height of his power and fame, on Dec. 23, 1783, he resigned his commission as Commander-in-Chief, and went home. The astonished King of England remarked that in doing so, Washington was “the greatest man in the world.” Greatness is often defined by what we could do but don’t. Greatness is measured by the temptations we overcome.

Thank you to the 78 families (as of writing this) who have given so far to the annual Diocesan Charity and Development Appeal (CDA).

As I announced a couple weeks ago, the parish goal hasn't changed for many years. This year, however, we've been given the goal of $151,562 (based on 3yr. avg revenue), which is almost $50k more than 187 families gave last year. As you can see, in order to reach our goal, it will take every family to do their part! Every gift matters, no matter how big or small, and each family is called to give what they can- in proportion to how God has blessed them. I personally have not given yet, but I plan to give this week. How about you?

One of the things that older pastors and younger priests occasionally quarrel about is the proper balance between work and prayer. I know one pastor who complains that his younger associate ignores the people and the parish because he wants to spend more time in prayer. And the young priest complains that the pastor gives him too much work to do and no time to pray. The Lord’s words this Sunday speak into this tension with an image that can help us find a proper balance between life and prayer.